What Comes Next
by themightyflea
Summary: Sherlock comes back form the dead, as it were, and the consequences of it take it's toll on his friends and all the people involved. Molly, particularly, makes a controversial choice and incurs the wrath of one Sherlock Holmes. *Note*: It starts out with a little drama, but I promise it will lighten up in a few chapters. At least that's the plan.
1. Chapter 1

_It is a truth universally acknowledged that when the phone rings in the middle of the night, it is hardly ever good news. That was Austen-esque thought in Molly's head when she reached for the ringing phone on her nightstand, and knocked it off the table with a swipe of her hand. Sighing, she leaned over the side of the bed and cracked open an eye to look at the screen. _

"_Brilliant." She muttered before swiping her finger on the screen and placing it against her ear. "Mr. Holmes."_

"_It's time." Mycroft Holmes answered in his typically detached voice. _

"_When?" Molly sat up slowly. She could feel the warmth of sleep leave her body and the cold edge of awareness start to seep into her bones._

"_Tomorrow. Be ready." The line went dead before she had a chance to reply. In any case, there wasn't much she could say. It was time for Sherlock to come back, and if things went according to plan, they all needed to be ready for what came next._

* * *

It was a media circus. John pushed past the throng of reporters in front of their apartment, pursing his lips and locking his elbows beside him. It'd been like this for nearly a week now, and there were no signs of flagging in the near future. Finally at the door, he thrust himself inside and slammed it closed.

"It's been like this the whole week!" Mrs. Hudson commented nervously as she came down the stairs. John nodded and walked forward, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Is he in?" He asked.

"He's barely moved." She half whispered, her hand coming up to her mouth before she walked off into her own kitchen and out of sight.

John climbed up the stairs at a much slower pace than he was used to, taking his time to put as little pressure on his leg as possible. He both wanted to be here, and hated the idea of it at the same time. This had been their place, his and Sherlock's, and then it'd been no one's place. Sherlock's removal from his life had been violent and bloody, and his wounds hadn't been healed long enough for him to be here and not feel the absolute weight of it.

Reaching the top step, John braced himself before pushing the door open.

"I can't believe you're back on that thing." Sherlock commented by way of greeting before moving to his chair and dropping himself into it.

"Well," John walked over to what used to be his chair, "a lot of unbelievable things have been happening as of late."

"I have a new case. Interested?" This was his third attempt, but John wasn't ready. Not yet.

"Maybe next time."

"Oh, come on!" Sherlock muttered angrily. "You can't still be upset, John. You of all people should be able to understand."

"I didn't come here to fight." John shook his head and leaned onto his knees, hands fisted against his chin.

"We might as well, you come here for little else."

"I come here to make sure the people out there haven't broken down your door and ripped you to shreds!" John replied and inhaled sharply. "Sod this, I'm leaving."

Sherlock made no move to stop him, his eyes, still the same painfully pale blue John had grown accustomed to, wandered over to the window and stared. John nodded once, and pulled his cane to himself, feeling self conscious as he leaned on it. It'd been a week, and he'd been here three times, all of which had ended similarly. Only his need to know that he was alive, that he was back, drove him to make the trip over and over.

Mary had asked him if he would ever be able to forgive him, after all he'd suffered, and he hadn't hesitated then. "Yes, of course." He'd said. "He's my best friend." He'd looked her straight in the eye and gave the only possible answer that he could've put into words. John knew that if Mary had been Sherlock he wouldn't have gotten off so easy.

* * *

It wasn't the first time Sherlock found himself standing in front of Molly Hooper's apartment door, but it was the first time since he'd disappeared nearly a year ago and that made it significant. He knew she would be home, the same way he knew she'd be making dinner and listening to music from that ridiculous television show. He rapped three quick knocks and waited.

Molly answered the door in what he'd come to think of as her house clothes, which ironically fit her a lot better than the clothes she wore anywhere else. Today she wore a chunky gray sweater with black jeans and a pair of black flats.

"Sherlock!" The moment she saw it was him she pulled the door open all the way and stepped aside.

"He's still angry with me." Sherlock walked past her and into her kitchen. Molly followed behind him, pushing him out of the way in order to move around him and stand in front of the stove. She pushed her hair back and picked up the wooden spoon she'd left when she'd gone to open the door.

"I didn't expect you to come back here." She commented, moving around the contents of the pot in front of her.

"I have a case, I need him and he's still angry with me." Sherlock continued and Molly sighed. "I can't get the bloody idiot to cooperate."

"You should be a little more understanding." Molly flicked her eyes his way and gave him a small smile. "You can't imagine what it was like for him when you were gone."

"Then why isn't he just happy about it."

"I'm sure he is." Molly shrugged, then shook her head. "But I'm sure he's also angry and hurt. God, I've been with you so much this last year that I forget how much you just don't know about being a person."

"I am a person, I know all I need to know." He frowned and shoved his hands into his coat pocket.

"Sure you do." Molly chuckled and turned off her stove. "John will come around eventually. In the meantime, you should just go ahead and do what you normally did before you met him."

"I hardly know what that is." He said under his breath and Molly stepped in front of him.

It was amazing, Sherlock thought, what being around him almost constantly for a year had done for Molly's behavior around him. She was still the same Molly, just a stronger more confident version of herself. She'd probably always been like this, only now he actually got to see it.

"You need to talk to him." Molly locked her eyes with his. "You two haven't had a proper conversation since you've been back and you owe it to him. Especially with what comes next." Molly crossed her arms over her chest and smirked. She knew she was right, and Sherlock did as well, it just happened that when it came to sentiment he needed a good push in the right direction.

"I'll talk to him." Sherlock sighed, the tension visibly taking over his body. "But I can't promise he'll stop being an idiot."

"Good." Molly smiled and turned back to what she'd been cooking.

Sherlock thought it smelled good and entertained the idea of staying over for dinner. The thought shook him and he glared in Molly's general direction. It seemed that while he'd been chasing down Moriarty's web, Molly had been working on making him more human than he'd ever care to be.

It was a disquieting thought, but Sherlock thought he'd stay for dinner all the same.


	2. Chapter 2

"_You are my home now."_

_Those had been his exact words before he'd left for the third time in as many weeks. It'd been a rare moment of vulnerability, and Molly was sure that he'd never own up to having said it, but she'd kept the memory of it safely tucked away._

_They'd been arguing, for the hundredth time, and she'd just lost it nearly at the end. _

"_Do you want to die before you have a chance to go home? Is that it?" She'd yelled it at him, shot it his way like a bullet and he hadn't even blinked. His icy blue, red rimmed eyes, pleading with her to understand._

"_You are my home now." That's all he'd said, like he'd resigned himself to never going back to his old life._

"_What about John?" Molly had asked quietly. "Sherlock, answer me. What about John?"_

_Sherlock had closed his eyes and turned his head away. Molly had felt the immediate effects of guilt wash over her but had stood her ground. She knew all too well that she was a replacement, a means to an end. His friends were the only ones that mattered, and they were the only memory that would keep him from going over the edge for the second, and likely more permanent, time._

"_Molly, you are-"_

"_I don't count. Not for this." She'd replied before walking away and slamming her bedroom door behind her._

* * *

It was a month before John finally agreed to go out on cases with him, and Sherlock appeared, at least to Molly, visibly relieved. For a long while, Sherlock had been coming in a state of rising panic to Molly's flat, sure that John would never forgive him for what he'd done.

Molly had done her very best to be supportive, but it'd been over a year that she'd had to stow away her feelings in order to help him understand his own. In truth, Molly was tired, and her heart felt more than a little raw. The moment John had started going out on cases, Sherlock had stopped coming to her apartment altogether, he'd even stopped calling.

"It just doesn't seem fair." Molly winced at the whiny tone of her voice before taking a sip of her drink.

"I thought we talked about the whining, darling, don't make me punish you."

"I'm sorry." Molly replied solemnly, but kept her eyes glued to the contents of the glass in front of her.

"There's a good girl."

"But it doesn't seem fair." Molly repeated, this time as a statement.

"It's not, but you've put yourself in this position, darling. You need to take control."

"It's why I'm here." Molly sighed and downed the rest of her drink.

"Are you done with the wine?"

"Yes." Molly replied, rising slowly from the white leather couch she'd been sitting on and adjusting her pink flowery skirt.

"Yes what?"

"Yes Ms. Adler."

* * *

There was something different about Molly, John had commented to Sherlock one day. The detective had barely glanced up from this work before he'd answered that Molly had just grown used to having him around the past year.

"No, it's something else. She's somehow become a lot more attractive." John had replied, amazed at his own assessment.

"She was always a beautiful girl John, it's probably her new found confidence that's attracting you now."

"Right." John had conceded, but he'd kept a closer eye on Molly ever since. Her clothes had changed, somewhat, although her style still veered towards comfort, rather than fashion. Today, for example, she wore dark slacks, a thick navy blue jumper, and black heeled boots. It was the boots that surprised him the most, and John couldn't help but wonder if they went all the way up her leg beneath those trousers. Surprised at himself, he shook the thought out of his head.

"Look at her Sherlock." John whispered, keeping his eyes down where he wouldn't be tempted to look as well.

"I've seen her." Sherlock answered dismissively.

"No, I mean _really_ look at her." John insisted.

Sherlock sighed and raised his eyes to look at her, a cursory glance at first, and then a decidedly cautious one. John could see his brow furrow when he caught sight of the boots, and he wondered if the thoughts crossing Sherlock's mind resembled his own in any way. If Molly could get Sherlock to think that way, John could easily be forgiven for the same, especially when he was set to be married in a few months.

"See what I mean."

"I do." Sherlock replied, his frown deepening. All at once, his face smoothed over and he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, John knew, without having to be told, that something was definitely wrong.

"Molly?" Sherlock stood. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Busy." Molly replied with a bright smile, before slipping through the doors of the lab.

"That was odd." John asked when he finally got his mouth working again. "Wasn't it?"

Sherlock didn't reply. Slowly he sat back down, and after a long look at the doors where Molly had disappeared, he resumed his work. If John didn't know better, he'd say that Sherlock had the look of a man who suspected his wife was cheating on him. But John did know better, and the idea of Sherlock with a wife had him laughing all the way home.


	3. Chapter 3

**_NOTE: _**

**_Hello people and thank you for reading! Before we continue with the story, I wanted to answer _****_one review about where this story is going. This story is going to be Sherlolly all the way. I want Molly to have some kind of friendship with Irene because I think it's a way for Molly to become more confident and I like to think that female characters don't always have to be at each other's throats. So, yes, Sherlock and Molly sitting in a tree. Again, thanks for reading!_**

* * *

_The first time Molly met Irene Adler, she was more starstruck than jealous. For weeks she'd been hearing about her from Sherlock, and for weeks she'd dreaded the idea of having to meet the woman who captured his attention so completely._

_That day, Molly opened the door to find a woman with the prettiest wavy black hair and the brightest blue eyes she'd ever seen, second only to Sherlock's. She hadn't expected to like her at all, let alone to become her friend, but she'd been captivated by her all the same._

"_This is Molly, I presume." The woman had said to Sherlock, and had smiled a brilliant smile at Molly before slipping past her and into the apartment itself. "I love what you've done with the place."_

"_Thank you." Molly had answered finally, in the nervous, fluttery voice she reserved for high pressure situations and awkward encounters. Sherlock had frowned before sending her to her room and asking her to close the door behind her. When Molly had protested, he'd simply rolled his eyes and steered her to her room himself, shutting the door with a bit more force than was necessary._

_Molly hadn't been able to anticipate her reaction, in spite of Sherlock's preparing her for Irene Adler's arrival. The woman had been beautiful and commanding, in ways that Molly herself only dreamed she could be. She was sure that those precise traits were the reason Sherlock was so attracted to her, despite his best efforts to deny it._

_Molly wanted to be like her, in the thick of things, living her own adventure, and not letting someone else hijack her life and live it for her. That moment had marked a new beginning for Molly, and the best was yet to come._

* * *

Irene had been expecting him to visit her from the moment Molly had called and asked her out for coffee. Molly had been clear, she wanted to learn to be like her, but she wouldn't change who she was and she didn't want Sherlock to know. Irene had requested time to consider the proposal. After all, she'd liked Molly right from the start, and it was a dangerous thing to keep a friendship like that.

In the end, the idea of pure and innocent little Molly becoming more like her was too intriguing to pass up, and she'd agreed to weekly visits with her. She'd also considered the possibility that Sherlock would eventually come knocking on her door in a jealous rage, she just didn't consider it'd be so soon.

"Should I let him in?" Adriana, Irene's newest assistant, smiled at the screen before her.

"Yes, I might as well deal with him now." Irene replied with a smirk, and walked closer to the door. Adriana buzzed him in, and leaned against the wall when he came barging into the receiving hall, his coat billowing behind him and his eyes flashing an icy blue.

"You can't be serious." Sherlock stated calmly. Too clam, for Irene's tastes.

"What do you mean?" Irene replied, a little nervously now.

"You know very well what I mean." He locked his eyes with hers. "Molly."

"What about her?" Irene shrugged one delicate shoulder and moved to lean on the banister of her staircase. "She wanted my help, so I gave it to her."

"She doesn't need your kind of help." He took a step toward her, his hands clenched on either side of him and his jaw set. Irene couldn't help the smile that spread across her face.

"She seems to think otherwise."

"I don't care what she thinks, she doesn't know you like I do." He turned on his heel and ran a hand through his curly black hair. "And she's not gay."

"So you say." Irene crossed her arms over her chest and smiled, a dangerous, taunting smile.

"So I know." He replied, too sure to doubt himself.

"Why?" She asked, an edge to her voice. "Because she loves you? You barely even look at her."

"I've seen her! What is there to look?" He half yelled, already exasperated with the woman.

"And there's you're problem, darling. You think you've seen all there is to see." Irene crossed over to where he was standing and pulled him toward her by the collar of his coat.

"She's not yours to play with." Sherlock said, removing her hands from where they'd been.

"We'll see."

* * *

Molly eyed the black lace dress lying on her bed and bit her lip. Irene had convinced her that she needed more experience in the dating world and had set her up on a blind date in order to get her started. Hence, the dress on her bed. It was tight, and low cut, with black lace sleeves and a hem to her knees. It was a beautiful dress, it just didn't look like her.

"Get over yourself, Molly." She muttered to herself. "It's just a dress."

But Molly knew, it wasn't just a dress, and this wasn't just a date. She'd been in love with the same man for years, and never in that time did she feel like he felt the same towards her. She'd eventually stopped dating other men, tired of comparing them with Sherlock and having them come up short. What she was doing now, dating another man recommended by none other than Irene Adler, was a big step and she wasn't sure she was ready.

Molly jumped when her phone rang and nearly dropped it when she pulled it out of her pocket. Glancing at the screen, she sighed and braced herself to answer.

"Irene." She sighed.

"Did you see the dress?" She purred from the other end of the line.

"Yes, it's beautiful." Molly replied honestly.

"Is there a problem?"

"I doesn't feel like it's my style"

"Darling, the problem is your style doesn't do you justice." She paused. "Did you go to the stylist I told you about?"

Molly looked at herself in the mirror and smirked. The stylist had washed, cut and blow dried her hair to perfection. Before, it'd been pretty light brown hair, whereas now it was shiny, and wavy and looked more honey colored than mousy. It looked lovely.

"Yes, he's brilliant."

"Good. Then I'll have your date pick you up at eight." The line went dead, and Molly turned back to look at the dress. She'd never owned anything so beautiful in her whole life, and she considered what had kept her from having such a dress if she liked it so much. She frowned.

"Well, it's just a dress." She repeated and shrugged. "What's the worst that could happen?"


	4. Chapter 4

_Sherlock loved John the way he always wished he could love Mycroft. Wholeheartedly and without shame, like family. It had taken his fake death and forced separation to come to this realization and it had made it all the more difficult when John wanted nearly nothing to do with him when he'd gotten back._

_It seemed to Sherlock that their time as family had come and gone too quickly to be fair at all, and though he'd never admit it to anyone anymore, he resented John's marriage because of it. It wasn't logical, it was sentiment. Useless, hateful sentiment._

_Molly had been supportive and he was sure that, were it not for her, he wouldn't have been able to cope. There'd been one particularly awful night, almost seven months into his absence, when he'd needed, more than wanted, to see John and know he was safe. He'd walked all the way to his new apartment, not far from Baker Street but far enough to avoid 221B whenever possible._

_That night, John had been drunk and Sherlock had been in disguise. He'd seen John on the steps leading up to the building that was now his home, bottle in hand and a loopy grin on his face._

"_You look familiar." John had called out to him. "Have we met?"_

_Sherlock shook his head but didn't talk, afraid that John, despite being drunk, would recognize his voice._

"_You remind me of my brother." John had continued, his eyes drooping in spite of him. "He looked a lot like you, but he was brilliant. Too brilliant, I suppose."_

_Sherlock had been heartbroken then, and more than tempted to end his work and come back home to the people that cared. That night, he'd walked back into Molly's apartment and sought her out, clinging to her desperately when he'd found her. That night he'd been a drowning man, and since then, he'd been lost at sea._

* * *

"We need to talk." Sherlock's deep voice carried over the phone line, and Molly suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at her phone.

"I'm actually busy tonight." She answered, reminding herself that she needed to take control. "Do you think we could discuss whatever this is tomorrow?"

"I'm on my way to your place right now."

"I have a date." Molly confessed, her cheeks coloring a deep pink in spite of herself.

"I'll be there in five minutes." The line went dead and Molly wondered if people ever finished conversations anymore. If Sherlock happened to arrive at the same time as her date it'd be awkward for everybody.

"Not as awkward as having him show up during the actual date." She mumbled to herself, and smiled a small smile. She was done trying to please everybody all at the same time, it was time people started taking responsibility, and facing the consequences of their actions all on their own.

Exactly five minutes later, her doorbell rang and she'd sprung up to answer it. Sherlock had walked past her and into her living room, throwing his coat on her sofa before turning to face her.

"Irene Adler." He'd said, and waited. Molly held her ground, hands planted firmly on her hips, and her chin raised defiantly.

"What about her?"

"Why, Molly?" He asked her quietly, walking towards her and encroaching on her personal space.

"Why what? She's my friend." Molly frowned and shook her head.

"She's no one's friend, and especially not yours." Sherlock replied and stepped away from her. His eyes went over her, taking in her shiny wavy hair and the feminine curve of her hips in her dress.

"Do you like the outfit?" Molly asked him, turning in a circle so that he could take it all in.

"Molly." Sherlock sighed, raking a hand through his messy curls and locking his jaw. "You can't go on this date."

It was Molly's turn to stare. She'd known, from the moment she'd come up with the plan, that Sherlock wouldn't take kindly to her becoming friends with Irene. She didn't exactly know why, she just knew that it was true. What she hadn't expected was Sherlock asking her not to go on a date.

"Why do you care?" Molly asked him, her bravado leaving her as quickly as it had come.

"I don't care." Sherlock replied, exasperation evident in his voice. Molly took a step back, feeling his words like a blow. She'd been ready to mouth off a few hurtful words of her own when the doorbell rang for the second time. It was him, her date.

"You need to leave now."

Sherlock ignored her and walked over to the door, pulling it open and leaning against the door frame. Molly wanted to move but was glued in her place, mouth hanging open, unable to comprehend how things had taken such a turn.

"Oh, absolutely not!" Sherlock had yelled over his shoulder.

"Sherlock, please!" Molly had started but he'd interrupted her half way through.

"Let me guess." He began with a smirk, and Molly already knew what came next. As if a switch had been flipped, Molly sprung for the door and paused when she saw the incredibly handsome man on her doorstep. Short dirty blonde hair, sparkling green eyes and a whiskered square jaw. Molly smiled at him and felt her cheeks redden.

"Hi." Molly greeted the stranger.

"Hi." He replied with a playful smile. "You must be Molly."

"I am." Molly cleared her throat when she heard a loud theatrical sigh coming from Sherlock. "You must be Dean? I didn't know you'd be an American."

"Alright, that's enough." Sherlock interrupted, and taking hold of Molly's arm, he pulled her back into her apartment and closed the door on handsome, American, Dean.

"Hey!" Molly protested. "I actually liked him."

"No." Sherlock replied simply and disappeared into her bedroom.

"What do you mean 'no'?" Molly started to follow him and stopped when he emerged with her coat over one arm and her purse hanging form the other.

"I mean, no." Sherlock insisted, putting her coat and purse on the chair in front of her. "I'm working on a case and I need you to come with me, so 'no' to your date and also 'no' to Irene Adler."

"Sherlock, wha-"

"Are you coming or not?" Sherlock had pulled on his coat and stood with his hand on the doorknob, his eyes intent on her face.

"What case are you working on?" Molly asked, crossing her arms over her chest and raising an eyebrow. Sherlock looked taken aback by her question, but it was fleeting.

"If you're going to question every little thing I'll just have to find another pathologist."

Molly bit her cheek and tried not to smile. She couldn't decide if this was romantic jealousy, or just his way of getting her attention because he felt like he was losing her after having her so completely for the past year. Molly decided on the latter, and she felt her heart warm at the thought. Sherlock was really like a child sometimes.

"Let me change first." She answered finally, and Sherlock's faced smoothed over with relief.

"It's really too bad you don't have a spine, Molly Hooper." Molly muttered to herself and snorted. "That man was really very handsome."

"Did you say something?" Sherlock called after her.

"Nothing." Molly called back, closing the door of her bedroom behind her.

* * *

"You should just admit that you fancy her." John commented while turning the page of his newspaper. "You can't keep coming up with cases in order to keep her in the lab."

"I'm not!" Sherlock insisted with a frown. "I'm coming up with cases to keep her out of Irene's house."

John chuckled and raised his brows. He knew his friend well enough to know that he wasn't the relationship type, or even the dating type for that matter. The fact that this was true, John knew, presented an interesting problem. What is Sherlock Holmes to do when he fancies a girl and cannot date her? Maker her life miserable, was apparently the answer to that question.

"So what if she's friend's with Irene? Lord knows it's done her a world of good." John shrugged and ventured a glance at his friend across from him. Sherlock had been plucking at the strings of his violin like a madman for the last hour.

"I don't like it." Sherlock answered. "She's a bad influence, with her tight dresses and her boots. I need Molly focused, not turning into some Irene Adler wannabe dominatrix."

"I don't think it's like that." John turned another page. "And I rather like the boots."

"Shut up, John."


	5. Chapter 5

_What Molly remembered most clearly about that night was a sense of being miles ahead of just 'tired'. That night she'd been dead on her feet, and so looking forward to getting into her bed, that she hadn't noticed his long, lean frame resting against one of the tables of her lab._

"_You're wrong you know." He'd said without looking at her. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." Sherlock had shifted to look at her then, and Molly had felt the weight of his trust on her shoulders._

"_But you were right. I'm not okay."_

"_Tell me what's wrong." Molly would never have asked him before, sure he'd shut her down, but that night everything had felt different. There'd been a feeling of intangibility and suspension to everything they did._

"_Molly," he'd walked towards her and Molly hadn't moved. "I think I'm going to die."_

"_What do you need?"_

"_If I wasn't everything that you think I am -everything that I think I am- would you still want to help me?" Sherlock had stopped in front of her, and Molly had known, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it wouldn't matter what he asked of her then. She would go willingly wherever he led her._

"_What do you need?" She'd repeated, her heart hammering in her chest, and a feeling of strength overtaking her senses, making her solid and sure._

"_You."_

* * *

It had been weeks since Molly last spoke to Irene, and she knew exactly who was to blame for it. She still didn't understand why Sherlock was so set against their friendship, but she wasn't about to let anybody tell her what to do, not anymore at least. Case in point, she'd agreed to meet Irene for drinks tonight.

"Sherlock, do you need me for anything else?" Molly wanted to be honest with him, but he'd been making it increasingly difficult for her to have a life outside of the lab, especially where Irene was concerned.

"Why?" He asked without looking up form his work.

"I just need to take care of some things I haven't had time to take care of."

"I guess I don't need you here tonight." He paused. "Are you coming in tomorrow?"

Molly grimaced at the thought of having to come in on a saturday but kept her thoughts to herself. If it meant she could get away from him tonight, she was willing to sacrifice one day. Besides, a saturday at the lab meant a coffee break with Sherlock at some point, and that was no sacrifice at all.

"Sure." She smiled. "I'm leaving now, so text me if you need me for anything else."

"Right." Sherlock answered quietly, almost automatically. Realizing he was deep into his work, Molly took the opportunity to slip out of St. Bart's before he had a change of heart.

Out on the sidewalk, and free from the smell of death and disinfectant, Molly took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The air felt cool and refreshing after spending so much time indoors, and Molly decided that she would walk to her apartment and enjoy it while she could.

She'd been looking forward to a night out for quite a while now, but somehow Sherlock always managed to find a new case that need her help straightaway. If she hadn't known better, she would have said that he was purposely occupying all her time. But she did know better, and that just didn't sound like the Sherlock she'd come to know. Sure, he could be manipulative when it served his interests, but he could manage without her just as well. Having her around was convenient, but certainly not necessary.

Molly sighed. If somebody had said to her a year ago that she'd be looking for excuses to avoid spending so much time with Sherlock she would've laughed and shaken her head in disbelief. She didn't want to avoid him, not really, but she liked the way she was now. She felt freer, and more confident, and if Sherlock's time monopolization was anything to go by, it had certainly made her a lot more appealing to him as well.

Reaching the door to her apartment, Molly slipped inside and walked quickly to her bedroom to shower and dress. It used to be that Molly didn't put much thought into what she wore, comfort always superseded anything else and that was what was most important to her, considering the long hours she put into her work. Irene hadn't agreed, and had choked back a gasp when she'd seen the state of her closet when she'd shown her.

"My God." She's said, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. "It's where ill fitting jumpers and pants come to die."

Irene herself had been dressed in a red wool shift, high heeled pumps and black stockings, the kind with the seam at the back. Molly had looked like a mess in comparison.

"Molly, darling, this just won't do." Irene had stepped further into her tiny closet, her lips pursing in disapproval, and she'd fished out the one posh dress Molly had kept, in case she ever needed it. "This we can keep, but the rest needs to go."

"Well what am I going to wear?"

"Yes." Irene had replied, setting the dress on Molly's bed. "We need to go shopping."

Molly stood in front of her small closet now and smiled at her pretty clothes. She'd kept, in spite of Irene's protests (and threats of punishment), a few comfortable things that she could wear around the house and while running errands, but the rest of her clothes were now fitted and tailored, and still surprisingly comfortable. For the most part, anyways.

Reaching into her closet, Molly pulled out a dark burgundy cashmere sweater dress and the black patent belt that came with it. She also pulled out a pair of high heeled boots that went up to her knees and that Irene had insisted that she buy.

Satisfied with her choice, Molly headed into her bathroom and turned on the shower, happy to be out of the lab and on her way to a fun night out.

Things were finally looking up.

* * *

"So what, exactly, are we doing here?" John asked Sherlock as they neared a coffee shop that neither of them had visited before. "Are you going to tell me or are you going to ignore me the whole night?"

Sherlock popped the collar of his coat and ignored John's questions. He would find out soon enough what they were up to, and Sherlock was sure John wouldn't leave before he knew.

Inside the coffee shop, Sherlock seated himself at a table that overlooked the street outside and specifically, the bar right across from it.

"Do you want anything, then?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head once and trained his eyes on the black car parked on the other side of the street. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his cheeks were flushed with the thrill of the chase. It'd been weeks since he'd felt this way.

John returned to the table within a few minutes and fixed his eyes on the same car that Sherlock was watching.

"We can't both stare, John." Sherlock commented mildly.

John shifted his eyes to the crowd in front of the bar, presumably trying to get inside, and frowned when he noticed a familiar looking head of hair.

"Sherlock, is that who I think it is?"

Sherlock shifted his eyes and immediately found the person John was referring to. He felt his heart quicken it's pace, while his lips flattened into a thin line. So he'd been right. Then again, he was nearly always right, wasn't he?

"Yes." He answered finally, and sighed. He knew he couldn't keep doing what he was doing, but what worried him most what _why_ he was doing it in the first place. Sherlock was a man of science, and logic, and as such he had to be honest with himself in order to understand. Saying that he was doing it because he wanted her focused on her work was not going to cut it as a reason anymore. Molly was always focused, no matter what.

There was another reason then. He was loathe to admit it, even to himself, but it was apparent to him that the only way out of this mess was through it.

He fancied Molly. There, he'd allowed himself to think it. Now, how did he go about _un-fancying _her?

"This is a whole new level of strange, Sherlock. Even for you." John had scoffed. "What, you're stalking her now? Is that it?" John chuckled, then outright laughed, and Sherlock locked his jaw in order to keep from lashing out at him. He'd need his help soon enough.

Molly finally noticed the black car parked on the street and walked towards it. As she did, the back passenger side door opened and Irene Adler emerged, with what appeared to be a genuine smile for Molly. Sherlock grimaced and turned back to look at John. He was studying him over the rim of his coffee cup, with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

"Oh, shut up John."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it." Sherlock replied and sighed. He couldn't keep Molly from being friends with Irene, especially if he didn't mean to date her at all. Molly deserved to be happy, and if that meant that Irene would set her up on further dates, well -Sherlock felt his insides flame up at the thought. He could still remember the nervously shaky voice Molly had used when that Dean person had showed up on his doorstep and the thought of it was enough to make him lose his mind. This was certainly proving to be a problem. Perhaps even a three patch problem. He stood from the table.

"We're leaving already?" John asked with a frown.

"Yes, there's something I need to do."

John reluctantly set his cup down and stood to put on his coat. Sherlock turned towards the door and pulled it, only to stop dead in his tracks. There on the other side of the street was the budding new source of all his grief.

Molly stood beside him, laughing and touching his arm, while Irene stood across from them with an approving smile on her lips. Sherlock noticed the pink flush on Molly's cheeks, the way she was leaning into the man, and something clicked inside his head.

"Hey, who's that talking to Molly?" John asked the minute they stepped out of the coffee shop. Sherlock took a step forward. Then another. His eyes locked on the pair of them the whole time.

"Do you know him Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Who is it then?"

"Dean."


	6. Chapter 6

_Mycroft stared at the thick folder in his hands in disbelief. They'd spent so much time, so many resources, and in the end it was like they'd been chasing a ghost. They probably wouldn't even know about any of this if it weren't for the fact that he'd decided, on a whim, to corroborate a testimony he'd found to be inconsistent. Oh, the virtues of legwork._

"_You verified this information, I presume?" Mycroft asked, closing the folder and handing it over to the female agent that brought it to him._

"_Yes, I went over and over it myself." She replied._

"_Then you know what you need to do."_

"_I do, sir." She swallowed. "I was told to have you sign off on it first."_

"_Very well." Mycroft sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers against his mouth._

"_Any safety measures?" She asked after a pause._

"_I will take care of those myself." He answered and held the agent's gaze before she understood that she was dismissed and turned to leave his office._

_When the agent was gone, Mycroft picked up his phone and stared at the screen, deciding wether to call his brother now, or not call him at all. It would be practical if he knew, and in that sense, Mycroft favored telling his brother as soon as possible. However, once Sherlock knew, there'd be no room for negotiation, and Mycroft always preferred to turn enemies into friends when national security was at stake._

_With a sigh, Mycroft set his phone down and went back to his paperwork. That decision could be postponed, he thought._

* * *

The music was loud against Molly's ears. It'd been months since she'd gone anywhere what wasn't the lab or to dinner, let alone a bar. Being out and surrounded by so many people was enough to make her dizzy. With a jolt, she realized the sidewalk seemed to be moving.

"That's a hell of a dress Molly." She'd heard Dean's gravelly voice and turned to look at him. He was smiling, his eyes twinkling beneath the streetlights.

"We'd better go inside." Irene had purred close to her ear, and Molly had turned again to look at her, everything around her going dark except for those bright blue eyes. Molly backed away and felt the floor give out from under her feet.

"Is this what needed your urgent attention?" Sherlock's deep voice had come from behind her, as if he'd appeared out of nowhere, and Molly could almost feel the heat coming off of him against her back. She whirled around to look at him but found him gone.

Molly tensed, and the noises that were pressing against her ears just a minute ago, faded until the only sound she could hear was the echoing of water dripping on the floor, and occasionally the flutter of wings high up above her head. _Where was she?_

"You're...a long way from home." Molly didn't recognize this voice, this female voice, and tried opening her eyes to look.

"I wouldn't try that, if I were you." The woman sighed. "Might hurt."

"Why..." Molly croaked, and winced. "Why...did you bring me here?"

"I needed to send Sherlock a message." The woman replied. There was a noise, of metal hitting metal, and Molly felt her insides clench and her skin go cold. There were loud clicking noises, like heels on cement, coming closer and stopping just a few feet away from her.

"Who are you?" Molly whispered, knowing the other woman was close enough to hear her.

"Of course." The woman said seriously. "I'm being rude, but all this introduction and me getting to know you, and you getting to know me, it's all just so dull." The woman replied, walking around her, her heels clicking away on the cement floor.

Molly felt a flutter of unease creep into her, her mind working slowly to make her aware of what she already knew, but she was grasping at straws. With the heaviness in her limbs and the fogginess in her head, Molly was sure she'd been drugged, but she still didn't know with what. Or when.

"Who are you?" Molly repeated and pulled her head back when she felt the woman's breath against her face. She hadn't even felt her move closer and it made her stomach clench.

"Well, you probably already know me." The woman laughed.

"Do I?" Molly pulled at the binding on her wrists and winced when they bit into her skin.

"Oh yes." Molly heard the woman circle her again, this time slowly. Molly turned her head and tried to gauge where she was. She didn't know what this woman's plans were with her, but Molly wouldn't go out without a fight.

"But I think, since we're getting to know each other, that you should know my real name." Molly heard the woman sigh and felt her hands on her legs. She tried to pull away.

"What do you want?" Molly's voice shook, but she felt numb, her mind still too slow and too foggy to work through what she was happening. She was in danger, and somehow, this woman thought that Sherlock would care. Molly could almost laugh at the impossibility of it.

"Well, I'm Moriarty and I owe Sherlock a debt."

* * *

Sherlock burst into Molly's apartment and stopped when he realized she wasn't there either. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and wiped it down his face. He'd looked everywhere for her, or at least everywhere he could think of that she would be. The fact that she wasn't anywhere only served to prove what he already suspected but hadn't wanted to accept: she'd been taken.

The sound of footsteps behind him sprung him into action, and Sherlock walked towards the back of the apartment to Molly's bedroom.

"Is she here?" It was John's voice. Sherlock stopped at the doorframe and closed his eyes.

"No." He replied tightly and walked further into the room, turning on the spot, searching for anything that might give her location away. He wanted, _needed_, to stay in control but it was hard when everything was just so painfully _Molly_. If he lost her, he thought, but couldn't bare to finish the thought.

"Should we call the police and let them handle this?" Dean's voice was quiet but firm, and Sherlock clenched his fist and the sound of it. He knew Molly found him attractive and it made him uncharacteristically violent.

"The police would probably bring Sherlock in to investigate, it's a waste of time." John replied.

"Who is that guy anyways?" Dean asked, this time a little louder, probably so that Sherlock could hear him. Sherlock clenched his jaw.

"Dean, darling, perhaps it's best if we let these two sort this out." Irene interceded, her voice tight with what appeared to be worry. It was, as far as Sherlock was concerned, the only positive thing to come out of this entire ordeal, finding out that Irene actually cared about Molly. Dean was an unfortunate downside.

"Fine." Dean conceded reluctantly. "But if Molly's still missing by tomorrow, I'm taking over. Are we clear?"

"You won't have to." Irene replied before John could have a chance to. Sherlock knew from experience that John didn't take kindly to such treatment. "Let's go. Bye, John. Have Sherlock text me with news."

Sherlock didn't hear John's answer, but he didn't need to. He'd found what he'd been looking for beneath one of Molly's pillows, a corner of the envelope just barely sticking out. He reached for, it, pulling it out and ripping it open in one move.

"Find anything?" John asked from behind him, but Sherlock's eyes were scanning the paper for the second time. He could read the words, but he couldn't believe what they meant. He read them again.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

Sherlock handed John the piece of paper and sat down on the bed. A year, a whole year and he'd been absolutely blind to it. Him, of all people, hand't noticed. It wasn't possible, and he _knew_ it was impossible, but then it wouldn't be the first time he'd been played now would it?

What he needed was proof. Sherlock stood and scanned the entire apartment.

There were the usual things, the ones he expected to find because he'd seen them before. A collection of romance novels, a laptop here, a cat over there, 'Glee' season one on DVD, nothing to indicate that what the letter said was true.

Returning to the bedroom, Sherlock found John sitting on the bed, the paper held tightly in his hands.

"It's not true." John said. "We have to find her, Sherlock."

Ignoring him, Sherlock walked over to one of Molly's bedside tables and pulled it open. Inside he found an external hard drive and a book.

"Grimm's Fairytales?" John asked the moment he'd seen the book in Sherlock's hands. "Sherlock you don't believe it do you? You know her!"

"Do I?" Sherlock replied, his eyes glued to the book in his hands. He flipped it open and stared silently at the name printed on the cover page.

He'd spent months with her, sharing her apartment, staying up late into the night just talking and sometimes even working. He would have noticed, he thought, if she wasn't who she said she was. He would have known. Or had he been so busy falling in love with her, surrendering so willingly to her soft brown hair and sharp brown eyes, that he'd been played for an idiot? The thought of it was enough to make him sick.

"Yes, you do." John stood up from the bed and came around to look at him. "Don't be so ready to believe anything because it will make it easier not to like her. She needs you now, Sherlock, because what this other person is about to do to her..."

"You're right." Sherlock admitted snapping back into himself. "I'm getting ahead of myself."

"Right." John clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed. "Now where do we start?"

"We'll start with Kitty Riley." Sherlock stated before walking out of Molly's apartment and onto the sidewalk, his arm raised as he hailed a cab. John ran out to catch up with him.

"Why Kitty Riley?" John asked.

"Because that," Sherlock nodded towards the piece of paper in John's hand, "is her handwriting."


	7. Chapter 7

_Sherlock Holmes had always considered himself a practical man, above the push and pull of human emotion. So the fact that he was walking across the street in order to confront a man he barely knew, about a woman who was not his, in any way, shape or form, seemed to be completely at odds with who he was. But there he was all the same._

_He thought there was something akin to philosophy hidden in there somewhere, but his mind was elsewhere. Because, he thought, she might not be his in any real way, but she felt his in all the ways that mattered. Never mind that it had taken him seeing her with another man to realize this, it was a miracle he'd realized it at all._

_John tried to catch up with him, might have even pulled on his arm, but Sherlock would not be stopped. He was a man on a mission._

"_Is this what needed your urgent attention?" Sherlock had asked, and had been surprised at the edge in his voice. Molly had turned around, eyes wide, to look at him, but Sherlock was looking at someone else._

_This man, this so-called Dean, was not just any man. He carried himself like a soldier, even though he didn't look like one at first glance. So, a military upbringing. His father had been a soldier. He also had a brother, and one he was close to, a busy life somewhere else, lots of baggage and absolutely no interest in anything serious. He hated him already._

"_Hey you got a problem buddy?" Dean had taken a step towards Molly and had reached for her arm. Sherlock had felt a powerful flare of anger at the sheer audacity of the move. _

_Dean seemed eager for a fight, and Sherlock found he was now in much the same mood._

"_I do, have a problem I mean, but I won't have it for very long." Sherlock replied, calm as ever on the surface, arms behind his back and a small smile playing on his lips._

"_Is that a threat?" Dean raised his eyebrows and began to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt._

"_It's certainly not a warning." Sherlock replied with a frown, surveying his opponent with cold calculating eyes._

"_Sherlock, what is the matter with you?" Molly had stepped in front of him, putting her hands on his chest and pushing him back. Sherlock looked at her. He wanted to tell her exactly what was the matter with him. Or rather who was the matter with him. But before he could get the words out, John had stepped up and pulled her away and behind himself, safe out of the line of fire._

"_Boys!" Irene had finally intervened. "We're drawing a crowd."_

"_We can take this elsewhere." Sherlock had taken a step towards Dean then, and had immediately felt John's hands wrap around his arms. Irene had grabbed Dean by the shoulder and pulled him back, her eyes fixed on Sherlock. _

"_Bring it on, Spock!" Dean smiled and winked. Sherlock pulled on his arm, ready to deal out a punch against Dean's jaw, but felt John tighten his grip on him._

"_Hey!" John muttered behind Sherlock's back. "Take it easy."_

"_Who do you think she prefers? A cold bastard like you who can't even admit that he likes her?" Dean had outright laughed at that, and Sherlock pulled with enough strength to catch John by surprise and slip his grip._

_Dean hit the ground hard, but recovered quickly. Irene had taken the opportunity to step between them, and push Dean back against the wall of the bar._

"_That's enough!" Irene said in her best dominatrix voice, and Dean immediately stilled, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. "Where's Molly?" She'd asked after a pause._

_Irene's eyes darted over the crowd, scanning the people one by one. Sherlock felt his anger dissipate as he scanned the crowd himself. He searched all the faces, but none of them were Molly. His Molly. _

_He turned around and walked up one length of the sidewalk, then the other, a nagging feeling of wrongness settling in the pit of his stomach._

_When he reached the entrance of the bar he turned in a circle, searching for anything that would indicate she'd just decided to walk to her apartment. But there was nothing._

_Molly was gone._

* * *

It was almost six in the morning when they finally found her, sprawled in the middle of what used to be Kitty Riley's apartment, and a note pinned to her coat. John moved quickly, kneeling beside her to check her pulse. Her heartbeat was strong, John noticed with relief, but the marks on her wrists were raw, and bleeding.

"Is she-"

"She's fine." John told him quickly, and tried not to turn around and look when he heard Sherlock's small sigh of relief. "Her wrists are badly hurt, though."

Sherlock came around and knelt on the other side of her, his eyes moving over her seeking out the details of what she'd been through. With a final nod, as if assuring himself that she was indeed fine, Sherlock plucked the note from her chest and opened it.

"We have to go." Sherlock's eyes darted over the piece of paper twice before handing it over to John. "The Yard will be here any minute."

John read the note to himself, and frowned at the content.

"What is she getting at? I don't understand."

Sherlock bent at the waist and eased his arms beneath Molly's body, careful to roll her head towards him once he'd lifted her off the floor. John stepped forward, ready to help in case it was necessary, but Sherlock pulled her body close to his chest and frowned. It was a possessive gesture, John noticed, and couldn't help smiling.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock was walking, nearly running, out of the building and onto the sidewalk. John struggled to keep up.

"Not to me, no." John said as he lifted his arm to hail a cab when Sherlock stopped and turned to look at him.

"It's doubt, John." Sherlock's eyes had the bright glow that was characteristic of him when he was on a case. "If you can plant the seed of doubt in a person's head, they will take care of the rest."

"So Kitty wants you to believe that...that Molly, of all people, is actually Moriarty?" John shook his head. "It's a stupid move, no one who knows Molly for more than a day would ever believe it."

"Oh, John, you're always so eager to _believe_ aren't you." Sherlock sighed dramatically, and held Molly tighter to his chest.

John looked at his friend in disbelief. For a long time, only his faith in what he knew to be true had been able to sustain him, to help him rise above everything else and go on for one more day. Sherlock had the look of a drowning man, and only now did John realize that unlike him, Sherlock didn't have the luxury of hope to keep him afloat.

A cab pulled up in front of them and they slipped inside, Sherlock settling Molly on his lap, her head against his shoulder.

"You don't believe it either." John remarked with a shrug, conveying a lightness of heart he no longer felt. It's not that he didn't believe Sherlock would be able to help Molly, so much as he knew this was the perfect way to destroy him. Doubt, it was a genius move.

"I don't?" Sherlock asked seriously, turning narrowed eyes his way. It was at times like these that he wished he had his friend's deductive skills. His face gave away nothing, but common sense, and sheer gut feeling, told John that Sherlock didn't believe that Molly was Moriarty any more than he did.

"No, you don't." John locked his eyes with Sherlock's. "You still care about her."

"I can't help sentiment, John. If I could I wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place." Sherlock replied impatiently and turned to look out the window. "I have to look at the data, only then will I be sure."

John didn't reply. He was sure about Molly, just as he'd been sure about Sherlock before. But John was all instinct, and sentiment, whereas Sherlock was logic and hard facts. If Sherlock couldn't get past the evidence, for Molly's sake, like John himself had done for him, then he was sure there would be nothing but dark times ahead for Molly Hooper.

John glanced over at the pair of them. Sherlock's eyes were on the road outside, but his hand was buried in Molly's hair, twirling it around his fingers. His body betrayed what his mind had only begun to comprehend.

He grimaced.

Dark times indeed.

* * *

**NOTE:**

**Hello! The next chapter will probably be up by the end of the week. I'm currently working on a project for school, but I will do my best to write anytime I get the chance.**

**Thank you so much for reading and for sharing your thoughts! I always hope that you guys will enjoy what I write and it's nice to know that you do. :)**


	8. Chapter 8

_The night Dean arrived in London, he was already having second thoughts about what he was about to do. It was bad enough that he hated to fly, but now he might actually have put the life he'd worked so hard to build, and keep separate from his work, on hold. An indefinite hold. It was setting his teeth on edge._

"_No one says 'no' to Irene." Sam had said before shoving Dean's duffel bag into his hand and patting him on the back with a smirk. "Call me when you're settled"_

_Settled wasn't exactly the word Dean would use, he thought, although Irene's house was a thousand times better than the majority of places he'd stayed in over the years, but stepping out of his own house that morning, knowing he wouldn't be back for God knows how long, he'd already felt homesick._

_Dean pulled out his phone now and turned it over in his hands. He hadn't called Sam since he'd arrived, and that was well over a week now, so he knew he had to call soon, but found himself looking for excuses to put it off. Calling Sam would mean he was jumping back into 'the life', and Dean was sure that one time around had been more than enough. Sighing, he pressed the call button and put the phone against his ear._

"_Finally." Sam answered after one ring. "I almost hopped on a airplane myself. How's Irene?"_

"_Alive, as luck would have it." Dean replied. "I need your help, Sammy.__Do you think you could hack into the security system at St. Bart's?"_

"_Seriously?" Sam sighed. "I'll see what I can do." He paused. "Does this mean you're officially done with mainstreaming?"_

"_No." Dean said after a pause. "This is just a favor."_

"_Right. What am I looking for then?"_

"_Anything related to Molly Hooper, and see if you can get surveillance too."_

"_I'll let you know when I have anything."_

"_Oh, and Sam?" Dean added before he could hang up. He hated what he was about to ask from Sam, mostly because he hated what it would mean for him when he did. He decided to ask anyways._

"_Yeah?"_

"_Find anything you can on Sherlock Holmes too."_

* * *

The last thing Molly remembered before waking up in a bed on 221B was a dark mass clouding her vision and distant female laughter. All at once, the memory of the entire ordeal came rushing back to her. The kidnapping. Moriarty. The pain on her wrists. The plan to bring Sherlock down. More than down, to destroy him completely. She screamed.

A set of arms wrapped around her, and Molly fought, finding that her hands were now free and that she could open her eyes without fear of ripping her eyelids in half.

"Let me go!" She yelled out and tried to pull away form the person that was holding her, but the grip tightened until she thought she couldn't breath. Finally she calmed down, and her eyes darted over the room.

"Easy now." Sherlock's deep, velvety voice whispered against her ear. He breathed out. "You're safe, Molly. Just breathe."

Molly breathed, and felt her heart slow and the adrenaline subside.

"Wha-" Molly swallowed, and winced at the pain in her throat. "What happened?"

Sherlock didn't let go of her, and Molly was glad. She felt just about ready to break apart, disintegrate into tiny pieces and soak through the floor. So much had happened, and she had so much to process, that the very act of waking up felt like she'd accomplished a monumental task. Already she was exhausted.

"I'll explain later." Sherlock replied quietly. "John." He called out, not loud enough for anyone to hear as far as Molly was concerned, but John walked in through the door a second later nonetheless. A look of relief crossed over his features the moment he saw her before a look of careful observation took over.

"You're awake." He breathed out. "Finally."

"Was I out for very long?" Molly croaked, more than asked, and sagged against Sherlock sitting behind her.

"Two days." John replied, pouring a glass of water for her. "We've been very worried."

"Two days." Molly whispered to herself. Her injuries felt as if they'd been inflicted on her just last night. John came to sit on the bed beside her and handed her the glass of water. Sherlock let go of her then, and stood to pace the room, hands in his pockets and a frown between his brows.

Molly looked him over the rim of her glass and frowned. His shirt was untucked and open at the collar halfway down to his chest. His hair was an unruly mess, which wasn't exactly news to Molly, but the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than she was used to. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Have you slept at all?" Molly asked him when she'd finished downing the entire glass of water.

"A little." He replied stopping at the window, his back to her. Molly turned back to John and noticed him looking her over.

"I feel fine." She assured him. "It's just the wrists, I think. Everywhere else hurts too, but I don't think it's anything serious."

"It's not anything serious." John nodded. "I checked when we found you, but I still need to make sure. I need to know what you're feeling."

Molly told him where it ached, how her head felt and that her throat felt like it'd been stripped raw. He checked her eyes, and her pulse and gave her two aspirin, which she swallowed immediately.

With a sigh, Molly fell back on the bed and pulled the bed covers along with her. She felt exhausted, like she needed to sleep for a week and maybe a week after that. John smiled a small smile and slid off the bed.

"Sherlock." He called quietly form the door. Molly opened her eyes at the name. John held Sherlock's gaze before stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him. Molly felt her eyelids go heavy, closing slowly despite her best efforts to keep them open. The bed dipped beside her.

"Molly?" Sherlock said carefully. "We need to talk." Molly nodded and tried to sit up.

"I suppose you want the details about what happened." Molly replied.

"Yes." He replied, and leaning his elbows on his knees, he steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. "There're quite a few details I need to clear up."

"Alright." She sighed, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't let her rest until he knew. The man was a machine, and sometimes he forgot that very few people besides him were as well. Molly scooted back on the bed and fixed the pillows behind her. She caught sight of her bandaged wrists and grimaced at the thought of what lay beneath. She could certainly feel it.

"Where do you want me to begin?" She asked patiently, keeping her eyes on his face, wishing she could kiss away the look of tense anticipation and disappointment. She couldn't imagine what had him feeling that way, but she'd spent enough time with him to know the look when she saw it.

"How about you tell me..." He trailed off. Molly frowned. "Tell me about how you became Moriarty."

* * *

John heard Sherlock shouting before he heard Molly, and he'd run to the bedroom in a panic. Sherlock wasn't the type to lose his temper easily, at least not for as long as he'd known him. In fact, in all their time together, John had only seen his friend angry, truly angry, only twice. Then there'd been the incident with Dean, and he'd been irritable ever since.

He opened the door and paused. The shouts had gotten louder, only now it was mainly Molly the one doing the shouting, and she was standing in front of Sherlock, nearly on tip toes. It was hard to pull off anger and indignity when you were that small, and you were standing on tip toes, but somehow Molly was doing it.

"After all this time!" Molly huffed. "After all we went through together, Sherlock, you've been in my house! In my room!"

"For all I know you could've just been playing with me from the start. Making me feel like I know you, just so you could make the ultimate play. It would be brilliant, wouldn't it? _Little Molly Hooper makes a proper fool out of Sherlock Holmes_? Is that what you had in mind? Or maybe _Shy lovestruck pathologist turns out to be greatest criminal mastermind of all time_?" Sherlock sneered at her, standing ramrod straight, hands in his pockets, barely even moving his lips.

If John hadn't known any better, he'd say Sherlock was indifferent to the situation, provoking her into a confession more than anything else. But John did know better, and he knew that Sherlock was not indifferent. He was hurting.

"You are such an idiot!"

"An idiot!" Sherlock narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brows.

Can't you see they're playing us both?" Molly threw back at him, and John readied himself to intervene when he noticed Sherlock wince as if he'd been struck. He didn't know what Molly knew, or what she would say to try to make him see beyond the apparent facts he'd been presented, but he knew of no outcome where Sherlock took the news well.

"Why you? It doesn't make sense, Molly, it doesn't add up! It doesn't explain all the facts and you know-" Sherlock spat back.

"I know what I remember." Molly interrupted him quietly. "And she said-"

"Who said?"

"The woman! The woman!" Molly yelled impatiently. "She said she owed you and that I would be the way to pay you back!"

"You're saying Kitty Riley is the real Moriarty." Sherlock sighed. "Very convenient, of course."

"Sherlock." John interrupted finally. "Just show her."

Sherlock's eyes ran over Molly's upturned face, and for a moment John had to look away. There'd been a look of fervent, unguarded hope and vulnerability. Sherlock wouldn't say he loved Molly. He wouldn't even admit he liked her, but if Molly knew anything about Sherlock, she would recognize the look on his face for what it was.

Behind him, John heard the hurried footsteps of people coming up the stairs. With a frown, he stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. He didn't have time for anything else before Dean, no longer wearing the sharp suit he'd been wearing two days ago, was coming down the hallway like a man on a mission. Irene, not too far behind him, had a similar look about her.

"What are you two doing here?" John asked with as much calm indifference as he could muster, but his voice cracked on the last syllable, betraying his surprise. No one could know Molly was here, and they certainly hadn't been expecting these two any time soon. Apparently they'd been wrong.

Dean stopped in front of him, eyes serious, mouth pressed into a thin line, and jaw locked square.

"We're here for the girl."

* * *

**NOTE:**

**Thank you for waiting, and thank you for reading. This is the newest chapter. I hope you like it.**


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